


Wish Upon a Burning

by deskclutter



Category: The Sandman
Genre: Anticipation, Bad Jokes, Gen, Siblings, and also bad art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:44:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deskclutter/pseuds/deskclutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Destruction waits for his siblings to find him, playing with old memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish Upon a Burning

**Title:** Wish Upon a Burning  
**Day/Theme:** April 22 / coming back  
**Series:** Sandman  
**Character/Pairing:** Destruction  
**Rating:** G

"Have you ever wished upon a falling star?" Delight once asked.

You must remember that this memory was of a long time ago, when the world was young and by the world I mean the universe, which was all we had of the concept of a world at the time. This is why Delight is there, and it is why Dream answers, "What would such a deed accomplish?"

(In the future he wouldn't say anything. He would be too possessive of sense to find it a sensible question and too aware of the Done Thing to say so.)

"Whyever would it need to _accomplish_ anything?" Desire asked. I recall it dragging its finger to its mouth, as though divulging a secret. "It is enough to _want_ it. Do you want people to wish on falling stars, little sister?"

"I think that it would be nice," Delight had said. "They're so pretty, they _should_ be wished upon. Don't you think so?"

I said nothing because she was my sister, and I didn't quite want to smash her dreams. Falling stars are dying stars, and I loved them not for wishes, but for anotheraspect of my function entirely. Dream, however, seized quickly upon the poetry of it, and that is how wishes on falling balls of fire came to be.

These days I like to look into the night sky, and I think of little snatches of memory such as these, and I think, "I would love to paint them." But I have to admit that I am still a little too tied to who I used to be, and my skill lies in deconstruction, not creation. I thought that might help me once, because I could break the picture into colour and shape, but it doesn't work that way.

Today, if such a situation ever rose, Despair would still say nothing, but for different reasons altogether; Desire would not give our sister what she wanted so easily; neither I nor Dream would be there; and Delirium would not ask such questions anyway.

They are coming. I can sense it in the water, which is a joke, by the way, though a poor one. I'm close enough to who I was to wonder if it would be better if I went back, if I could somehow mend the broken ties between all of us. But I destroy things first and foremost, which does engender creation of new things, but I don't quite think I like the look of the new things that might sprout up between the seven of us if I took that route.

I'm far enough from the Destruction of our youth to realise that becoming Destruction of old will not be enough.

That's why I can't come back with them.

I ought to give Delirium a painting of the stars, of a hundred burning balls of destruction that twinkle prettily in the sky like hanging lamps, but I can't paint for nuts. Even the dog recognises that, which irks me no end, but it's the truth, I'll grudgingly admit. I do owe her a present in apology, but I'll think of something. I always do.


End file.
